Page 255 of Ruins
She sits up straighter, her shoulders squaring, the flicker of fire returning to her voice. “I’m talking about the fact that you don’t even let me have basic things like social media. Or that you gave me a new phone, but wiped all my friends’ numbers. That you make me feel like… like I can’t betrustedto make my own decisions.”
I open my mouth to respond, but she presses on, her words spilling out faster now. “Elena asked me about my socials today. She wanted to share hers, and I had to tell her I don’t have any because youtookthem away. She wanted to know why I don’t go to campus, and I had to explain how you think it’s toodangerousfor me to leave the house. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? How it made me feel?”
“Vasilisa…” I begin, my voice low, but she cuts me off.
“No,” she says, her voice trembling but steady. “I love you, Santo. I trust you with my life. But if I’m going to trust you, then I need you to trust me too. I’m not some fragile doll you have to keep locked away. I need to beme, not just your wife, not just someone you’re protecting. Ineedtrust.”
I stare at her, the weight of her words settling heavily on my chest. She’s right. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. I’ve wrapped her in so many layers of protection that I’ve stripped her of her freedom, her autonomy.
My hand runs down my face as I let out a slow breath, the guilt and frustration clawing at my insides. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I just…” I glance at her, the tears in her eyes cutting deeper than any wound. “I don’t want to lose you. I’ve lost too much already, Vasilisa. I can’t—”
“You won’t lose me,” she interrupts, her voice softer this time. “But you have to trust me, Santo. You have to let me live my lifewithyou, not just as a footnote in your story.”
I reluctantly nod, “I promise you are not a footnote in my story Dea, you’re the center of it.”
Her lips part, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she nods.
A moment passes before she exhales softly, like she’s been carrying the weight of this moment for far too long.
“Okay,” she murmurs, not just in acceptance, but in understanding.
For a moment, the room is silent, the weight of her words still hanging between us. My chest feels heavy, like I’ve been cracked open in a way I wasn’t prepared for. But as her hand rests lightly on mine, that heaviness shifts, replaced by something softer.
She looks down at the ring on her finger, her voice quieter now. “And the ring? You really see this as redemption?”
I take her hand in both of mine, holding it gently. “I do. Because it means I’ve found what I needed. It means I have hope again. You’ll have your freedom, but nothing and no one will ever harm you, Vasilisa. I won’tallowit.”
Her lips tremble, and this time when the tears fall, they carry something brighter than pain. Slowly, she nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Santo,” she whispers, leaning toward me, her arms sliding around my neck. “I’ll wear it proudly.”
Her hold on me tightens, and I let myself sink into the moment, her light chasing away the shadows that have followed me for far too long.
I press a lingering kiss to her temple before murmuring, “I have something for you.” She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “But first,” I continue, “you have to allow me to take you to dinner.”
Her brows lift slightly, amusement flickering in her expression. “Allowyou?” she echoes, tilting her head.
I smirk. “Yes, allow me, Dea. This is me wanting to spoil my wife.”
Her lips curl into a small, knowing smile. “In that case… I accept.”
***
The ride through the city is quiet, a rare moment of peace as I take Vasilisa to a small Russian bistro. The second we pull up in front of the quaint establishment, her eyes light up, a spark of recognition dancing in their depths.
She leans forward, taking in the warm glow of the windows, the hand-painted Cyrillic sign above the entrance, the scent of butter, herbs, and fresh bread drifting through the night air.
“Is this...?” she starts, trailing off, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, a small grin tugging at my lips. “Thought you might like a taste of home.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, and for a moment, I see something unguarded in her expression—something raw, grateful. Then, she smiles. Not just any smile.That smile.The one that tightens my chest, makes my world feel right.
“Thank you, Santo,” she says softly.
Inside, the bistro is cozy, intimate. Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, the scent of dill and slow-cooked meats filling the space. A waitress greets us in Russian, and the moment Vasilisa responds, something shifts.
She comes alive.
